There is something stunningly masochistic, and ineffably British, about
queuing all night in biblical downpours for a match you are not actually
going to see.

But these were the lengths to which Andy Murray-maniacs were prepared to go to claim their ground passes for a place amid the hysteria of SW19.

“It’s about being here, isn’t it?” said Sam Laughton, who had brought along his two children from High Wycombe. “Far better than watching it down the pub.”

That might be a moot point. For the options to those shut out of Centre Court - the vast majority, given that debenture seats were selling for upwards of £45,000 - were limited.

The bedraggled masses, who alternated between short sleeves and cagoules amid the caprice of an English summer, could either stand virtually on top of one another on an overflowing Murray Mount or see the final via video link on an outside court.

The second choice was a curious experience indeed. “Go to Court No 2, the match is also on there,” the over-officious Group 4 men barked. Well, only in an abstract sense.

For a start, the action was projected not on big screens but on an electronic scoreboard, which scarcely seemed larger than a living-room plasma. The couple of thousand resilient souls who congregated here had to crane their necks and squint their eyes just to check whether a ball had hit the line. Cheers and groans were uttered almost in the same breath.

This had been anything but an ordinary Wimbledon, with Murray entering territory unchartered by a British male for 74 years, but the narrative of the denouement felt familiar.

First there was breathless excitement as our boy wrapped up the first set; ‘Ohmigod, it’s really happening!’ was the cry on the approaches to the Centre Court citadel.

Then came tension, when Roger Federer struck back to the second and leave the contest precariously poised, before rain arrived to soak the huddled throng. Finally, a sad inevitability settled upon the scene, as the audience watched Federer wielding his racket like a rapier.

It had been said in the preamble that Federer was the most popular Wimbledon champion, but as the last Murray forehand flew long at 6.16pm you would have struggled to believe it.

For a few seconds on the hill of Aorangi Park there was near silence, the crowd realising desultorily that their cheering and cajoling had come to nought.

Federer’s excellence was asphyxiating, eliciting the odd astonished gasp but nothing more affectionate when the victim was Murray. Over on Court No 2, a querulous child clung to his mother. “Oh, Federer, why couldn’t you lose?” he protested.

Dispiriting though the outcome was, these were people capable of making their own entertainment. For a few moments in the opening set the commentary on the giant Aorangi monitor ceased, prompting a sudden refrain of “We want sound!”

Others, excluded from the Centre Court aristocracy, simply wanted to enjoy some tennis. Plenty of purists flocked to a wheelchair doubles match on Court 14.

Karen Anderson, from Biggar in Lanarkshire, was here to show Scottish solidarity with Murray but also wanted to see a ball struck in anger, and chose the boys’ final on Court No 1. “We’ll be back next year,” she promised, proving that blind faith was a powerful drug.